lions and snakes
by ohlookrandom
Summary: All she understood was that she was ice, and he was fire- complements, opposites, perfect. Implied death. Dramione.


lions and snakes

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So I usually don't write Harry Potter fanfiction. But I make an exception for Dramione. (And probably a lot more exceptions will follow.) Finals are _finally _over...

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters. J.K. Rowling has that honor.

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If there was something Hermione Granger was famed for, it was her impeccable logic. She'd employed it ever since she was a first-year; there was no way Ron could have taken Harry through the test of fire so easily. Only Hermione could do that, and Harry and Ron knew it.

She was the brains of the bunch, the only one who saw connections quick enough. Headstrong, brainy, _brilliant_, Harry had observed once; she had blushed and changed the subject.

Impeccable logic. She knew she had the ability to see past little details that didn't matter, tiny details that Harry and Ron threw aside as unimportant. She saw things in a clear, logical manner, laying them out clearly and arranging them so that they made sense. Plans, strategies, plots- she saw them quickly, scrambled as they were, and straightened them out so that even her friends (who weren't really the brightest of the bunch, she admitted) saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

She often asked herself why she wasn't in Ravenclaw, then. The smartest house of the four- Hufflepuff for fairness, Slytherin for cunningness, and Gryffindor for bravery- Ravenclaw, undoubtedly the smartest, undoubtedly the most logical (though Luna posed an interesting exception). She had asked Harry that once, and he had looked at her funny, as though she had grown a second head. "Because," he told her patiently, "you're willing to give up logic for what is right- even though sometimes you might see it as wrong. That's courage."

She accepted his explanation, but sometimes, she didn't feel like a Gryffindor. Ron was a Gryffindor, alright. He was brave, though sometimes he acted rashly- but that was what she was here for. And Harry? There was no question about Harry. He deserved his spot in Gryffindor.

Harry's voice came to her then, as she lay in her thoughts. "Madame Pomfrey," he muttered, and even then, his voice was edged with that poison of desperation, the one she had heard lately- "you can't be serious..."

The nurse murmured something consolingly, and Hermione went back to her thoughts.

A Gryffindor she had been christened, and a Gryffindor she had remained, accepting the role as Harry Potter's best friend, Golden Girl. Gryffindors were red and- gold? She struggled with her thoughts briefly, but then her thoughts slipped back into fluid clarity. Red. Red like fire, gold like bravery, lions of stalwart courage. She was a lioness.

Wasn't she?

A hand touched her skin, and Hermione heard a sharp intake of breath. "Merlin's beard, what happened?"

She could almost see her best friend, spreading his hands helplessly. "She's been sick for a while, but tonight she collapsed and-"

"And what? Where's Weasley?" The speaker's voice wasn't familiar- at least the tone he was using wasn't familiar to her. It was concern laced with anger laced with desperation, a potion of sheer recklessness derived from pent-up frustration. "I thought you three were always together!"

"Don't even reach for your wand," Harry snapped, and Hermione wanted to tell him that it was okay, nobody meant any harm. "Ron went to Hogsmeade with Lavender. Hermione told him he had to, he deserved some time off."

That's right, she had told Ron that, Hermione remembered, yawning silently in her head. She did wish that they would stop fighting. The war was over.

Where was she?

Right. Red lions of courage.

Hermione mulled all these things over, wondering if she was supposed to be fire, why she felt like ice. Indeed, she felt like cold glaciers were slowly seeping through her veins, taking over and stretching their cold fingers to wrap themselves around her skin, permeating the thin layer of clothes she wore and transporting her to winter land in the middle of July.

The only time she had ever seen real ice was when she had gone to Alaska with her parents, so many years ago before all this madness started. She remembered the ice as a dim, ghostly green, lit up by some ethereal essence from below like Hades welcoming the souls of the dead.

Green. Green like Slytherin.

She'd contemplated that once, too, but had quickly dismissed the idea of her being in Slytherin. Pureblood talk was ignorant, silly. And silly did not befit Hermione Granger.

The voices were back. "Potter, she's so _cold_. Are you sure she's not-"

"_Shut up!_"

"Don't tell _me _to shut up, Scar-face. I care just as much as you do-"

"Then don't talk about her like she's dead!"

I'm not dead, Hermione wanted to say, but she didn't want to wake from her thoughts.

Someone laid their hand on her forehead, and she heard the sharp intake of breath. "She's really cold. Did you try warming her up?"

"In case you haven't noticed, she's encased in blankets." Harry's voice was tired, blunt, the dim embers of a burning fire.

The hand lingered, leaving a trail of burning warmth against Hermione's skin- fire, she thought. Fingers stroked her skin gently, fluttering quietly and then leaving despite her imploring them to stay.

Pain was beginning to flood her body, and Hermione whispered an expression of pain. She felt something shatter, tiny shards splattering all over the floor- then two voices hovered over her, overlapping each other in waves of concern and desperation- Madame Pomfrey, the name was yelled over and over again, jagged with terror, jagged with fear.

Images began to swim through her mind; the Sorting Hat declaring her a member of the cunning snakes, her sweeping down the hall in green robes; tea in the dungeons and acceptance of being a Mudblood; Yule Ball dances in emerald royal robes; a slow intimate dance with a white-haired prince-

Her eyes shot open then, pain wracking every nerve of her body, and she saw two white faces staring down at her. "Hermione," Harry tried to say, but his throat caught-

She fell back, coughing violently, and she felt a warm hand catch her fingers. "Granger," her prince croaked, "Granger, hold on."

She could feel the world blurring even as a tall figure dashed over, muttering spells and casting charms over her. "Fire," she choked out, but the word wouldn't _come. _

Then the pain subsided, and Hermione fell back, relieved, but she couldn't understand why Harry was yelling something, and she couldn't understand why Malfoy was holding him back. She couldn't understand why Madame Pomfrey was attempting to take Harry's wand from him, and she couldn't understand why the nurse was crying. She couldn't understand why Harry was hysterical, why Malfoy was turning to her, his eyes filled with burning passion and sorrow.

All she understood was that she was ice, and he was fire- complements, opposites, perfect.

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I doubt that this is my best work, but I wanted to get it out of my head. Read and review? :)


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